If you’re British and of legal drinking age, the chances are that you have strong feelings, one way or another, about Wetherspoons. Walk down practically any UK high street and you’ll see the name: it might be shouting in block capitals from the roof of a city centre pub, it might be written more discreetly by the entrance of a venue resembling something of a ye olde boozer style, or even outside a converted bank, opera house or swimming pool.
It’s the gateway to a world of migraine-inducing carpets, strangely ornate toilets and aggressively cheap pints. Inside a Spoons, you’re as likely to come across OAPs eating a curry or besuited business types having a speedy meeting as you are to bump into a hen do or encounter a group of teens drinking fluorescent cocktails by the fishbowl, clutching their newly minted IDs.
